Dances with Skunks

Out of the corner of my eye I hought I noticed something keepng pace with us as we walked rom a roadside parking area to he trailhead for one of the many

isconnected segments of the se

ously-in-need-of-chiropracticmanipulation Backbone Trail. For

ome reason the other half of my

iking party-the four-legged member with keen eyes and deli

ate nose-entirely failed to reg

ster that we were not alone. She was too busy chewing on a disarded Starbucks coffee cup she'd ound.

Those cups, along with beer ottles, random items of underarments, canvas work gloves, igarette cartons, torn pages from irlie magazines, losing lottery ckets, golf balls and busted bits

f cellphones comprise the major

y of roadside trash found along ovely scenic corridors that wind hrough the Santa Monica Mounains. Occasionally and mysteriusly there's a stray nickel, quar

ter or dollar bill to be found, a reward for our self-appointed trashcollecting detail.

But this thing pacing us that afternoon had not come from Starbucks-or if it had, it likely cleared the place out. This was no stinking imposter: it was Pepe Le Peu in the flesh.

My association with skunks had previously been limited to cartoon characters, reeking roadkill and mysterious stinkbombers who decided to den under my mobile home for a few months. But the houseguests from Hell were never seen. For reasons known only to themselves they heavily perfumed the premises in the dead of night, leading to much eye-watering, gagging, gulping for fresh air and swearing. Mercifully, no rambunctious newborn skunklets ever popped up through a floor vent to invade the living room. Their close proximity did not lead me to harbor pleasant thoughts about this species. But the one pacing us on the road was so stunningly and exotically beautiful I had to re-think my stink issues...notwithstanding my ancient "Fieldbook of Natural History" that stated "Can give [strong repulsive] scent even if held by tail but does not cause blindness."

Skunk, dog and I proceeded down that road like a breakaway group in a road race, the Tour de Nez. The dog remained fixated on shredding the coffee cup. Skunk remained very warily focused on me, as if I possessed some devious secret weapon like scent glands that once activated could empty Staples Center.

Like something out of a whimsical Disney film, the creature truly scampered. It was both lightbodied and light-footed. The more it seemed to mistrust me the more it slightly elevated its hindquarters, accomplishing this without slowing its pace, kind of resembling one of those tricked-out low rider cars. Its black and white fur shone with a silky gloss. Mesmerized by its beauty, for one insensible moment I wanted to pick up the skunk and cuddle it against my cheek.

But its plume-like tail-typically its most fearsome aspect as its upraised position is associated with an olfactory assault-was its most gorgeous attribute. Foxes are famous for their brushy tails but this skunk had a most glorious appendage of long feathery, curling silver-gray and white strands. In another era, the skunk's tail would have been a choice adornment for a lady's chapeau.

I couldn't figure out where the skunk had come from or where it was going, out there in broad daylight on a wide, barren dirt shoulder. It entered the roadway, crisscrossing several times like some peripatetic jaywalker. Idiotically I bolted into the road, waving at the rare passing car to slow down so as not to hit the skunk doing its crazy cross-the-center-line dance. Motorists were not pleased. They sniffed the air

deeply, then rolled up their windows tightly. One was a young impatient location scout who got lippy until he recognized me from a previous encounter when he was hopelessly lost and I routed him back to civilization. He asked if skunks were known to spray cars. I told him one had sprayed the rear tire of my truck one night while I lay in the truck bed star gazing during a meteor shower. He shifted into reverse, hung a U-turn and fled up the road.

The dog and I jogged after the skunk, curious where it was bound. By then the hound had taken notice and was barking so furiously the vibration of her voice loosed mini-rockslides on both sides of the canyon road. With unerring precision the skunk made a sharp left and turned in at the trailhead marker. This led me to surmise that all manner of living beings can share a common love of these sweet little chaparral-coated mountains that gird our homes or dens. We allowed the skunk a generous headstart, then ambled after.